


an interval

by pennyofthewild



Category: Free!
Genre: Airports, Established Relationship, M/M, Prompt Fic, i wonder if this counts as a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is two am at the Haneda Airport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an interval

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hexachrome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexachrome/gifts).



> Written off the prompt "stuck in the airport because the flights were so very delayed and it's like two am."
> 
> I'm sorry this is half-assed and crappy; I hope you like it nonetheless.  
>  ~~first time writing Kisumi I have no idea what the characterization is like pls forgive ooc-ness~~
> 
> cookies to whoever catches the crossover characters!! ~~does this even count as a crossover~~
> 
> you can read this ~~dumb~~ story [**here**](http://pennysdrabbledump.tumblr.com/post/112810995551/an-interval) at my [writing tumblr](http://pennysdrabbledump.tumblr.com)!
> 
> edit: ahhh, apparently i got kisumi's first and last names mixed up in-text and DID NOT EVEN NOTICE  
> (you guys - were you being super nice not telling me, or - is that far-off laughter i detect)

The novel is one Rin recommended to Sousuke a while ago. It is a psychological thriller, something Sousuke would never have guessed from the book’s cover and title:

Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn, in red, curly cursive script on a black backdrop, like one of those vampire romance stories –

Don’t judge a book by its cover, Rin had said, in response to the text Sousuke sent him ten pages into the book – I thought it was going to be a romantic comedy, or something. He’d been teasing, of course; while it’s true Rin is a hopeless romantic, he is a prolific reader, and doesn’t really subscribe to any one genre.

Sousuke hadn’t been – much of a reader, that is – not until he found himself with too much time on his hands and no way to spend it. He hadn’t realized _how much_ swimming took out of him – effort-wise _and_ time-wise – till he could no longer swim the way he used to.

Now, halfway through the book, he puts the novel down, slipping a bookmark between the dog-eared, well-worn pages. He grimaces, rubbing at his neck (stiff) and shoulder (stiffer). The waiting lounge is quiet – most other travelers have given in to exhaustion and are asleep in various, painful-looking positions. One desperate soul, having decided to forgo the (uncomfortable) lounge chairs, is sleeping on the floor, having spread their jacket out on the tiles.

Kisumi is nowhere to be seen. Sousuke isn’t sure when he’d disappeared – he vaguely remembers having heard Kisumi mumble something about a walk, but he doesn’t know how long ago that had been. His wristwatch informs him that it is a quarter past two.

A quarter past two, in the _morning_.

The overhead schedule still reads _delayed_ in front of HND - > LAX, as it has for the last eight hours. Eight hours is an awfully long time for a flight delay – and it’s felt longer, because Sousuke, in a moment of lapsed judgment, had slipped his painkillers into his suitcase just before checking it in, because he is an idiot.

The lounge is suddenly _too_ quiet. There is a teenager playing some sort of video game on his portable console, and the little _pops_ and _bangs_ emanating from the speakers are beginning to get on Sousuke’s nerves. He feels like he needs to take a walk, too, and maybe find out what Kisumi has been doing all this time. Sousuke stands and stretches, wincing at the spark of pain that shoots down his shoulder and spine. Kisumi left his messenger bag on his chair, and the little light periodically lighting up one of the outside pockets informs Sousuke he’d left his phone behind, too. Sousuke frowns, annoyed, and pockets Kisumi's phone. It’s just like Kisumi, to wander off without a care in the world, _and_ make sure he cannot be contacted.

Kisumi isn’t in any of the duty-free stores by the lounge. He isn’t at any of the restaurants, either. Sousuke is beginning to feel worried, instead of just irritated, as he had earlier. Outside the airport’s large, square windows, it is dark, the airport’s interior reflected on the glass in a haze of dim light. He has to stand right next to the glass to see the wide stretch of tarmac set with runway lights, glowing bright in the darkness, extending into infinite space. As he watches, a plane takes off, too far for Sousuke to make out the shape of it, just the trail of smoke as it climbs, higher and higher, into the sky.

Suddenly, Sousuke feels very, very small.

 

***

 

Kisumi is playing a pick-up game of basketball – without a hoop – when Sousuke finds him. His opponents are three boys – who look to be about in grade school; sixth grade, maybe –  and Kisumi is playing them all at once – dribbling, weaving, ducking, a blur of striped-white-shirt-and-pink-hair. Sousuke isn’t sure what the rules are, considering there is no way to score, but that does not seem to have discouraged Kisumi or his friends, who are grinning, open, unguarded, and have sweat dripping down their faces and into their collars, as if they’ve been playing for a while.

They don’t notice Sousuke as he approaches, caught up as they are in the game.

There is a bench on the sidewalk, and Sousuke sinks onto it. There is a coat and several jackets draped across the back – the coat is Kisumi's, the jackets are probably the boys’. Sousuke tugs the collar of his own coat closed. It is cold, and he is not the one running around like a madman.

A sudden shout and a burst of laughter bring Sousuke’s attention back to the game. The ball rolls across the road, till it collides with a lamppost and stills. Kisumi is the one laughing; he is using the end of his dress shirt to wipe his face, the pale expanse of exposed skin sending a little prickle down Sousuke’s spine. The shirt is half-tucked-in and half-out. He has the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and when he sees Sousuke his eyes widen and the laughter turns sheepish.

“Let me guess,” Sousuke says, before Kisumi can do something out-of-character, like apologize to Sousuke for disappearing and leaving his cellphone behind, “you lost.”

“No,” one of the little boys says – he has dark hair that covers half of his face, “it was a tie, wasn’t it, Shigino-san?”

Kisumi ruffles the boy’s hair, grinning. “Nah, I’m quite beat. You guys knocked the stuffing out of me.”

He gets a shy smile and a mumbled reply in a voice so low Sousuke has to strain to hear – something about “Shigino-san being nice.” The other two boys – one is a redhead with interesting eyebrows and the other is _tiny_ , with a shock of powder-blue hair – jump in, then – the redhead is _extremely loud_ – and Sousuke can’t quite make out the details, but the general consensus seems to be that Kisumi is _really, really cool_ –

It’s probably because he’s had a lot of practice with his younger brother, but Kisumi is _really good_ with kids. Actually – Kisumi is good with _everybody_. He has a natural gregariousness, a sort of effortless magnetism that _draws_ people to him, even people like Sousuke, who is prickly and cynical and not the easiest person to be around.

“Well, I should go,” Kisumi says, “you guys should get back to your families, okay?,” and he asks whether they need someone to walk them – indirectly, so he doesn’t hurt any delicate, little boy pride.

“So irresponsible,” Sousuke says, gravely serious, once the boys have left, “you should have walked them back _anyway_.”

“I would have,” Kisumi says, setting his hands on his (narrow, gray-trouser-clad) hips. His collar is unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his neck. He smiles at Sousuke from underneath his lashes, kitten-like. Sousuke supposes the expression is supposed to be innocent, but it only serves to look devious, “but you would probably have ended up feeling left out, and sulked the rest of the trip, like the giant, oversensitive little kid you are.”

“You’re not cute,” Sousuke tells him, bitingly, “not at all, so you can stop looking like that, and put your coat back on before you freeze solid and get sick.”

Kisumi widens his (violet, guileless) eyes, pursing his lips. The trick shouldn’t work – he’s about as tall as Sousuke, after all, and there is nothing frail or childlike about him – but Sousuke – like everybody else (except Nanase, who is abnormal) has always been weak in the face of Kisumi's charm.

“Stop looking like what, exactly, Sousuke?” Kisumi asks, stepping close and fingering Sousuke’s coat-lapels. Sousuke can smell him: shampoo and cologne and sweat.

Kisumi's eyes shutter, lids dropping, and Sousuke swallows, tilts his head, leans in.

Kisumi's lips are dry, chapped – Sousuke swipes his tongue across his upper lip and tastes salt. Kisumi smiles against Sousuke’s mouth.

 

Slides his hands into Sousuke’s back pockets.

 

Tugs Sousuke close.

 

***

 

(They get back to the waiting lounge to find boarding had begun while they were outside, and that _this is the final call for passengers flying to LAX_.

“The flight would not have left without us, Sousuke, don’t be ridiculous,” Kisumi says, when they are safely aboard, and Sousuke makes sure he knows exactly whose fault it would have been had they not made it.)

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

end.


End file.
